


Silver Bullets

by DizzyRedhead, rhysiana



Series: Silver & Gold [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Bottom Peter Hale, Brief Deaton Cameo, Former College Sweethearts, Lawyer Peter Hale, M/M, Minor Allison Argent/Isaac Lahey, Outsider POV Epilogue, Porn with Feelings, Rock Star Chris Argent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-03-06 06:54:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13405815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DizzyRedhead/pseuds/DizzyRedhead, https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhysiana/pseuds/rhysiana
Summary: Sometimes Chris couldn’t believe how long it had been since he really arrived on the music scene; he could still feel the excitement from the first time Silver Bullets had been asked to perform for a New Year’s Rockin’ Eve show like it was yesterday. This particular rockin’ eve, he even got to close it out with the East Coast in time to head out to West Coast parties. Everything seemed to freeze, though, when he spotted Peter Hale, of all people, taking angry leave of the party's host. When the countdown started all around him, he hastily took a drink at “one,” because how could he possibly be expected to kiss anyone else tonight when he’d just watched the love of his goddamn life walk out the door? Again.





	Silver Bullets

**Author's Note:**

> Do you ever have that thing where you're just innocently sitting on the couch half-watching the New Year's Eve show on the TV because you decided to be lame and stay home, and then you look up and catch a glimpse of a performer that makes you think "rock star Chris Argent"? And then an AU gets lodged in your brain? No? Maybe that's just me.
> 
> But hey! There's actually smut in this one, because I dragged DizzyRedhead down into this with me. She *said* she wanted to try writing more AUs this year; I'm being *helpful.* (Relatedly, tagging is like a whole different experience when there's actual smut involved; tell me if I left out some key thing.)
> 
> And finally, I feel it is important for the experience of reading this fic that you imagine just how much it grinds Gerard Argent's gears that his son refused to come work for the family arms business but still named his band Silver Bullets. (Gerard does not appear in this story, but his imagined ire was key to my worldbuilding enjoyment.)
> 
> -rhysiana

Sometimes Chris couldn’t believe how long it had been since he really arrived on the music scene; he could still feel the excitement from the first time they’d been asked to perform for a New Year’s Rockin’ Eve show like it was yesterday. He felt the same excitement this time, pacing the stage with his microphone under hot studio lights in the ridiculously fake “club” atmosphere the network had set up for their LA coverage, looking out over a crowd of carefully picked mid-twenties partiers who’d been given ridiculous promotional hats, and he absolutely recognized how manufactured it all was and he _did not care_. He loved it all.

This particular rockin’ eve, he even got to close it out with the East Coast and then head out to West Coast parties, where, even if the people were still hand-picked and camera-ready, he knew most of them. Well, half of them. Some of them, anyway.

At the very least, he knew whose fucking house he was at, which was more than he could say for some of the New Year’s parties he’d been asked to attend over the years.

It was getting close to midnight, so he’d started looking around for his host, Deaton, hoping that would help him identify a potential bubble of familiar faces, when he finally spotted the guy walking back into the living room from some side hall… and then the entire world slowed down. Chris could still feel his hand rising to get Deaton’s attention, the smile on his face, the condensation from the glass in his other hand dripping down his fingers, but he was strangely detached from it all, and for several interminable seconds, there was only silence around him. Because there, behind Deaton, stalking down the hall in a suit jacket with an expensive leather satchel slung over it, both of which stood out as entirely too professional for a party like this, was a set of shoulders Chris would recognize anywhere.

Peter Hale.

He took half a step forward just as time started again, and he knew Deaton had found him, that people were saying things to him, but all he saw was a replay of that one glimpse of familiar, angry, blue eyes. The countdown started all around him, and he hastily took a drink at “one,” because how was he going to kiss anyone else tonight when he’d just watched the love of his goddamn life walk out the door?

Again.

***

_Chris stared at Peter across the library table strewn with more open books than one person should possibly need at one time, and watched his brows draw down in confused consideration. “Let me get this straight. You’re leaving in the middle of the semester to tour with your band?”_

_Chris shifted in his seat, hoping with everything he had that Peter would see what an amazing opportunity this was. “We got an offer to open for the entire North American leg of Bitten’s world tour. This is our shot, Peter. We can’t turn this down.”_

_Peter looked down at his books, at his copious notes, and Chris reached his hand out to him. “I can always come back and finish college later. But this is important. Not just for the band, but for me. It’s my chance to do something other than work for Argent Arms. Maybe my only chance. Tell me you see that.”_

_Peter looked back up at him and took his hand. “Yeah, I see it. Just… do one thing for me,” he said, squeezing Chris’s hand a little tighter._

_“What?”_

_“Let me look over your contract.” And he gave Chris one of those devilish little smiles that Chris had fallen in love with. “I don’t want anyone screwing you but me.”_

_Chris snorted and lay his head down on the table to laugh in relief, which earned him a glare from the girl at the next table over, but he didn’t care._

***

_The tour took them through LA again two months in. Chris sat on the edge of his hotel bed, watching Peter pace. He’d been anticipating a lot of things from this tour stop, but he’d never considered this._

_Finally Peter rocked to a stop in front of him and knelt down to take his hands. “Your show was amazing.”_

_Chris swallowed. He didn’t like that tone of voice at all. “Thank you.” He tried to smile, but it wavered and died quickly. His post-performance euphoria was long gone._

_“You’re going places. You know you are. This isn’t going to be just one tour. You were right; this is going to be big for you. I can already tell. Everyone can.”_

_Chris reached out to cup Peter’s jaw, and he closed his eyes and leaned into it, ever so briefly, before continuing._

_“But I can’t be there for you. I’ve got college, and I’m going to law school. That’s… I can’t give up on that.”_

_“I don’t want you to,” Chris insisted._

_“I know that. I do.” Peter took both his hands again firmly. “But can’t you see? We’re going different places now. You have everything you ever wanted now, and I’m not going to hold you back from that.” He stood again and kissed Chris on the forehead._

_“Goodbye, Christopher.”_

_Desperately, Chris held onto Peter’s hand before he could pull away completely and surged up off the bed for a real kiss, trying to pour everything he felt into it, so Peter would just_ see _that this wasn’t what Chris needed at all. For just a second, Peter kissed him back just as desperately, and Chris thought maybe it would work, but then Peter pulled away again, and Chris couldn’t stop him from walking out the door this time._

_Every night after that, he forced himself to bare his teeth in a savage grin when he heard the crowd scream at Silver Bullets’ introduction. He told himself it was all worth it. It had to be._

_He’d made it._

_He had everything he said he ever wanted._

_He was a rock star._

_He didn’t look back. He couldn’t._

***

He’d poured himself a whiskey and was looking out over the hills of suburban LA when the doorbell rang.

Victoria pursed her lips and raised a judgmental eyebrow at the glass in his hand when he answered it. “Bit early in the day for that, isn’t it, Chris?”

He ignored her in favor of returning Allison’s hug. “Hi, Dad!”

“Hey, baby. Did you guys have fun skiing?”

“Yeah, Colorado is great. Oh, hey, I saw you on TV.”

“Yeah?” he said with a smile. “How’d we look?” He could feel Victoria still scowling at him as she trailed them into the living room.

“Good, I guess. Lydia made hot dad comments.” Her look of horrified disgust was priceless.

“I know, I know, I’m so embarrassing. You’ll forgive me if I take it as a good sign you kids were doing something as lame as watching the New Year’s Eve show on TV?”

“Oh, well, you know, you were on pretty early…” She gave him an innocent grin as he made a show of covering his ears, and batted her eyelashes before she ran off to her room, laughing.

Chris’s answering grin faded as he turned back to Victoria. He locked eyes with her as he pointedly threw back the rest of his drink before setting the glass down. “And how are you? Survived all your favorite black diamond trails again, I see.”

“I’m fine,” she snapped. “Her dorm opens again on Saturday. Don’t forget.”

“Have I ever once forgotten anything important in her life?”

“No,” she admitted grudgingly. “Not hers.” She turned and stalked back to the front door.

He showed her out. “Lovely to see you, as always, Victoria.”

She just glared at him over the roof of her car before she got in and slammed the door pointedly.

He didn’t bother to watch her drive away.

***

“Hey, Dad, can we got out for coffee?” Allison asked the next day, hanging over the back of the couch where he was idly noodling with a guitar.

He craned his head back at her. “I’m fairly sure we have fifteen different kinds of coffee in the house.”

“Yeah,” she said, and broke out the dimples that he hadn’t been able to resist since she was three and figured out arguing. “But we don’t have doughnuts!”

“Ah, I see,” he said, already setting the guitar aside, “somebody has to help eat the carbs the rest of LA is avoiding.”

“Exactly!”

A short time later, he was waiting patiently by the register, black coffee already blessedly in hand, as she flirted over the pastry display with the guy supposedly helping her pick flavors. He’d already resigned himself to having to pay for one of each when he suddenly felt all the hairs on the back of his neck rise. He turned slowly, not sure if he’d find paparazzi or fans or something more, but wanting to be prepared.

He was most definitely not prepared to find the very ice-blue eyes he’d been obsessing over since the party staring straight at him over a sardonic smirk. “Well, if it isn’t Christopher Argent.”

Chris swallowed. “Peter.” The fact he made his living from vocal control was probably the only thing that kept his voice from cracking.

Allison bumped into his shoulder from behind, and Peter reached out to wrap his hand around Chris’s, preventing his coffee from spilling. Chris stared at him, eyes wide.

“Dad, are you ready to pay?”

Chris finally tore his eyes away from Peter. “What? Oh. Yes, of course.” He pulled out his wallet and handed her his credit card. “Here.”

“Thanks!” she chirped, and leaned up to give him a quick kiss on the cheek.

Peter hadn’t taken his eyes off Chris.

“Um. My daughter, Allison.”

Peter’s smirk relaxed minutely into more of an actual smile. “Yes, I know.”

Chris just blinked at him.

And now Peter gave him that look, that _look_ , that meant he was laughing at Chris on the inside, and Chris wanted to die a little, or curl up at Peter’s feet, because he missed, suddenly, _viscerally_ what it felt like to know Peter was amused and he’d had something to do with it. He’d always been the smartest person Chris ever knew; Chris felt like he’d spent his entire life still trying to catch up.

A shiver ran down his spine when Peter murmured, “I have kept tabs on you, you know.”

“All ready!” Allison said, appearing beside Chris again with a box that was definitely large enough to have one of every kind of doughnut in the store. “Who’s this?”

“Allison, this is Peter Hale, a… uh…” How could he possibly explain what Peter was to him?

“A very good friend from college,” Peter finished for him smoothly. “Not everyone remembers your father actually went to college, but I was there.”

“Oh, cool,” Allison said cheerfully. “You’ll have to give me all the dirt. He never lets me get away with anything.”

Peter cut his eyes at Chris and bit back a knowing smile. “I’d like nothing better.”

Allison elbowed Chris in the side.

“I don’t know if you had other plans today,” Chris said, “but you could join us? We could, uh, catch up, and it looks like Allison cleaned out the entire pastry case.”

She turned her face away loftily and affected an innocent expression. “He was cute and I couldn’t decide. Sue me.”

Chris gave a huff of fond exasperation before darting a look back at Peter. _Please_ , he said with his eyebrows.

“Sure,” Peter said easily. “I’m on vacation today, after all. Got an extra day because they called me in on New Year’s.”

“Good!” Allison said. “We need more people to help taste test all the flavors. Dad never eats enough.”

“No,” Peter said, “he never did.”

***

Chris drove carefully back to his house, entirely too aware of Peter’s car following them, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror what felt like every few seconds, his mind a constant litany of _just drive, dammit_. It wasn’t like he really expected Peter to suddenly change his mind, to peel off onto some LA freeway, never to be seen again, but he couldn’t help checking anyway. Peter was never one to back down from a challenge, but none of this felt real.

They hadn’t seen each other for two decades.

It felt like yesterday.

Beside him, Allison played with the radio, stopping with a grin when she found a Silver Bullets song, and he forced himself to roll his eyes and _act normal_. “Aren’t you supposed to be sick of my music by now?” he asked.

She shrugged. “It’s the weirdest thing. You turn out to be kinda good.”

“You know, I think I’ve heard that.”

She punched him lightly in the shoulder and demanded he sing along with her, which at least pulled him out of his head enough to get them safely home.

Peter pulled smoothly through the gate and up the driveway after them, coming to a stop just as Chris climbed out of the SUV. Their eyes locked again through Peter’s windshield, and he gave Chris just the hint of a smile as he turned his car off.

“Dad, I forgot my keys!” Allison yelled from the front door.

Chris broke away with an exaggerated sigh and went to unlock the house for her. She headed straight for the kitchen with her prizes as he held the door open for Peter to precede him in.

“Thanks,” Peter said, and Chris was absolutely certain the way Peter’s hand brushed his was no accident.

It was going to be a miracle if Chris survived the next hour.

“So, Allison,” Chris heard Peter say, “what are you studying?”

“Well, I don’t have to declare until the end of next year,” Allison said, “so right now I’m just kind of enjoying getting to live in LA again while taking all my gen ed requirements. Mom’s pushing for a business degree, but Dad says I should take my time to figure out what I want.”

Peter leaned over the doughnut box with a look of serious deliberation before reaching in for an unholy concoction of cream filling, purple icing, and sprinkles. “Well, it’s certainly worked out well for him.” He accepted the plate Allison handed him to catch crumbs and took a surprisingly dainty bite with a wicked flash of teeth in Chris’s direction.

Chris chose his own doughnut blindly and did _not_ groan out loud.

He listened to Peter give Allison advice about old favorite study spots in the library and cheap restaurants he knew were still around, the sound of his voice, with its ever-present undercurrent of snark, still as soothing as ever. Some part of his soul had clearly imprinted on Peter at a key formative moment back when he was nineteen and he’d been completely screwed ever since.

And then Allison was wielding a knife, cutting up doughnuts into bite-sized pieces, Peter was gravely making a record of all the flavors, and they were somehow both ganging up on Chris to try what they deemed a sufficient number and recording his reactions. He wasn’t at all sure how it had happened, and he was a little alarmed at how well they seemed to get along. There were Instagram photos. It was horrifying. His PR person was going to be thrilled.

It only stopped when Allison got a text from Doughnut Boy. “His name is Isaac, Dad.”

Chris raised an eyebrow. “Uh-huh.”

“And he’s perfectly nice, which you could see for yourself this morning, and he just got done with his shift, and now he wants to go see a movie,” she said, sounding confident and sure, but flipping her phone over and over in her hands nervously. “So… can I?”

He lifted his hands in mock surrender. “I’m not stopping you.”

“Thanks, Dad!” She bounced up to give him another kiss on the cheek and headed off to her room to… do something to get ready, apparently. Change her clothes? He had no idea.

Chris led Peter into the living room and gestured vaguely around the high-ceilinged room, light flooding in from the tall windows. “So. Here we are.”

“Indeed,” Peter said in a tone that still read to Chris as deceptively mild, (always worrying with Peter,) and started making his slow way around the room, examining all the things Chris’s irritating decorator had deemed tasteful enough for display in a public room of the house.

Chris watched him. He’d been shocked by the instant sense of familiarity he’d felt the other night at Deaton’s, when he’d caught such a brief glimpse of Peter but known him immediately anyway, but now he took in all the differences. He was older, certainly, but so was Chris. And while he’d never exactly been a sloppy dresser, even as a college student, now he was… refined, standing there in Chris’s living room in jeans that had most certainly never hung on a rack and a v-neck cashmere sweater with the sleeves pushed up. Even on a casual day, his hair was gelled _just so_ , and while he clearly hadn’t shaved in a few days, the stubble only served to define his jaw in a way it hadn’t been capable of back when they were just barely into their twenties.

He turned to look at a record hanging on the wall and the play of sunlight and shadow highlighted the planes of his back, drawing Chris’s attention helplessly, hopelessly, to the added bulk there. He ached to run his hands over Peter’s shoulders again. They’d been built more similarly in college, but the intervening years had pared Chris down to wiry strength, all tattooed, whipcord muscle photographers loved to catch in sleeveless shirts on stage. Peter, though, had clearly dedicated some of his meticulous attention to detail to his workouts, and Chris could hardly say he was unappreciative.

Allison blew back through the room, now in a different jacket and boots with heels, armed with the purse she hadn’t bothered with earlier. She definitely had her keys this time, because she jingled them at him and said, “I can take a car, right?”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “A car, yes. _Not_ a motorcycle.”

She laughed at him. “Of course not, Dad! Scaring boys on motorcycles doesn’t happen until the third date!”

Peter choked on a laugh from the corner, and Chris grinned at her. “Have fun.”

“But not too much,” she finished for him, and waved over her shoulder. The front door opened and then shut behind her.

Silence filled the house in the wake of her departure. Chris thought vaguely that he should say something, make some sort of polite small talk, but with Allison gone, all he could think about was the aching _want_ , sharp and clear inside his chest like it was yesterday that Peter slipped out of his grasp.

“She’s delightful,” Peter said, breaking the silence as he stalked slowly toward Chris. He still moved the same way, deliberate and almost predatory, the intent in his gaze unmistakable.

“Yeah,” Chris managed, his throat gone tight. As much as he loved Allison, he didn’t want to talk about his daughter right now. “But that’s not why you came back with us, is it?”

Peter smiled, slow and pleased. “Perceptive as always. Why did you invite me, Christopher?”

“You know why.” Chris gathered all his courage, reached out and ran his hand lightly over Peter’s arm, up to his shoulder. “It’s the same reason you said yes.”

A sharp intake of breath was all the warning he got before Peter’s hands were on his waist, familiar as they pull him closer. “Are you sure?” Peter murmured. “Be sure, Chris.”

“I’m always sure about you.”

He’d forgotten, Chris thought vaguely, what it was like to be the sole focus of Peter Hale’s attention. And then there was no more room for thought. Nothing but Peter’s hands on him, plastering them together until there wasn’t an inch of space between them. Nothing but Peter’s mouth devouring his, so familiar and so strange all at the same time. Nothing but Peter—but he didn’t need anything else, not really.

Chris tilted his head, old instincts returning like it was just yesterday that he’d last kissed Peter. But the scratch of stubble, the new muscles under his hand, were a reminder of the years and differences between them. But Peter still tasted the same, under the sugary remnants of the doughnuts. Still kissed the same, like he wanted, _needed_ Chris more than he needed air.

It would be so easy to just let it happen, like it always happened. No matter what else, they’d always had this magnetism, this gravity between them. But they weren’t the same people they’d been back in college, and some part of him managed to remember that, even as the rest of him just wanted to let go, put himself in Peter’s hands.

“We should talk,” Chris tried as Peter started working his way down his neck.

“We should,” Peter agreed into his skin, and then moved up to gently bite and scrape his teeth down Chris’s earlobe before murmuring into his ear, “but the length of a single movie is not that long. Do you really want to waste it?”

_Dammit, that’s cheating_ , Chris thought as he gasped and arched more firmly into Peter. Of course, that also resulted in him tugging Peter more firmly against his own thigh, and he was rewarded with a soft groan in return. “You make a convincing argument,” he said, and Peter surged in to kiss him again.

“Fuck,” Peter swore when the finally broke apart, breath coming fast and hard. “Where’s your bedroom?”

Chris blinked at him for a moment before the words finally sank in. “Down the hall, last door on the right.”

Before he knew it, Peter was towing him down the hallway, every step delicious torment thanks to the pressure of his jeans against his erection. “You know,” Chris said absently, most of his attention focused on watching Peter’s body move, “I do have a very nice couch.”

Peter laughed as he pushed open the bedroom door, not the amused, superior little chuckle of his professional persona, but his real laugh, loud and joyous. “We’re not in college anymore, Chris. Besides, I’ve had a couple of decades to think about this.” He stopped by the side of the bed, pulling Chris close again, hands sliding under the hem of his t-shirt to find skin. “I want to take my time with you.”

Chris could only nod, stroking his hands over Peter’s chest, down his stomach, then around to trail up under his sweater. Another kiss managed to distract him a little from the hard planes of muscle flexing under his touch. Peter’s stubble rasped over his skin as he kissed under Chris’s jaw, his ear, down his neck. Hungry, nipping little kisses, with just enough sharpness to convince Chris that this was real, not a dream. Peter was really here, with him.

“Take your shirt off,” Peter ordered, his lips brushing against the base of Chris’s neck.

“You take it off for me,” Chris countered, letting his head fall back to give Peter better access. “You’re the one with the plans.”

Peter bit down, sucking on the skin under his mouth before pulling back to admire his handiwork. “So you’re saying you don’t care how this is going to go? Just going to put yourself in my hands?”

Chris swallowed and looked directly into Peter’s eyes. Challenging, just a little. “Can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be.”

A heartbeat, two, passed as they stood there, eyes locked together, and then Peter peeled Chris’s shirt up over his head in one quick motion. Instead of going directly for his pants, though, he paused, running his hands slowly down Chris’s arms, fingers tracing over the intricately inked lines covering his skin.

“Your fucking tattoos,” Peter murmured, moving on to the column of dates over his ribs, stark and basic black against the pale skin there. “Do you have any idea what it was like? That goddamn _Rolling Stone_ cover just about killed me.”

Any response Chris might have made was lost with the breath that escaped him when Peter slipped gracefully to his knees, pressing his lips against one of the dates on his way down. Chris didn’t have to look to know which one. The top date on the left-hand side, the one closest to his heart. The only one the internet had never managed to figure out. Not the beginning of that first tour, not the end of it, just some day in the middle, they said. Peter clearly remembered it, though: the day he walked away.

But he was here now, looking up at Chris from under his eyelashes as he popped open the button on Chris’s jeans, pulled down the zipper. Chris lifted a hesitant hand to his face, warm skin contrasting with the prickle of stubble against his palm as Peter leaned into the touch.

Peter pushed his jeans and boxer briefs down in the same motion, his hands skimming over Chris’s legs as he peeled the denim down and off. “Sit down,” he said softly, urging Chris down onto the edge of the bed.

Chris went, feeling more settled in his skin than he could remember being in a long time. He couldn’t resist reaching out, though, catching Peter’s sweater and tugging it up until he lifted his arms and let Chris pull it the rest of the way off.

“Holy shit,” he breathed, his hands moving of their own accord. Where Peter had been lean and wiry before, the years had added bulk, muscles clearly sculpted by dedicated hours in the gym. “Fuck, Peter, look at you.”

Peter looked up from under his lashes, almost uncertain, if that wasn’t such a ridiculous idea. “A little different,” he murmured, running his hands up Chris’s thighs.

“We both are,” Chris answered.

There was no arguing with facts, and Peter was never stupid enough to try. He took a deep breath, leaning in, then stopped himself, looking back up at Chris. “Do—do you want to use a condom?”

“I—” Chris paused for a minute, pushed through the little flash of hurt. “I don’t get around as much as the tabloids want you to believe. I got tested at my last physical; haven’t been with anybody since then. Any condoms knocking around are probably expired—”

Peter’s eyes flashed with some indecipherable emotion as he leaned in again, wrapping his hand around the base of Chris’s cock and licking a slow, teasing line up the underside. “If it’s been that long, maybe I should go ahead and make you come now so you can last.”

“I’m not nineteen anymore,” Chris protested, his hand curving automatically around the back of Peter’s head. “If I come now, that’s gonna be it for awhile.”

For a moment he thought Peter had decided to risk it. He ducked his head down, closing his mouth over the head and taking half of Chris’s cock into his mouth in one slick slide. But then he pulled back, a slow, agonizing drag of his lips up the shaft before letting the head slip out of his mouth with a wet, obscene noise.

“Well then,” Peter said, getting to his feet, his hands going to the button on his jeans. “Do you still keep your lube in the same place?”

“Everyone keeps it in the bedside table, Peter,” Chris retorted, leaning over to open the drawer and retrieve the bottle. It took a few tries, his eyes glued to the impromptu striptease Peter was giving him as he kicked his jeans and underwear off.

He wasted no time after that, climbing onto Chris’s lap and taking the lube from his hand. “Not everyone,” he said with a kiss. “Come on, get me ready.”

Wrapping his hand around Chris’s, he drizzled lube over his first two fingers and guided them down. He tipped his head back with a sigh when Chris teased a fingertip over his ass, his hips rocking forward and back.

Chris took advantage of his distraction to lean forward, get his mouth on Peter’s neck, his shoulder. “Like that?” he breathed, circling and pressing but never quite pushing inside.

Peter growled at him, a noise that would have been disconcerting if it wasn’t so familiar. “You didn’t used to be such a fucking tease, Christopher.”

“I’ve learned the joy of taking my time,” Chris replied, scraping his teeth over Peter’s impressive trapezius just as the tip of his finger slipped inside. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“I want,” Peter growled, his words precisely spaced, “you to fuck me. I want to ride your hand until I’m ready, and then I want you to fuck me into the mattress.”

He punctuated his statement by pushing back, taking Chris’s finger as deep as it would go.

Chris forced himself to relax his other hand where it had tightened on Peter’s waist. “Fuck,” he muttered, mesmerized by the way Peter’s whole body rippled as he moved, muscles flexing and releasing.

“Exactly.” Peter smiled at him, the small, intimate smile he’d always reserved just for Chris. “Give me another one. I’m ready.”

It took a few seconds for his meaning to sink in, but once it did, Chris obediently added another finger, watching Peter bite his lip and sink down onto them. Somehow he’d forgotten what this was like, seeing Peter lose himself in sensation, in Chris. Feeling him, hot and tight and slick, the intimacy of these moments when they were wrapped up in each other.

“I’m ready,” Peter said again, opening his eyes.

“Are you sure?” Chris asked, half out of concern, half because this had always been their dynamic. He curled his fingers, seeking, smiling in triumph when Peter’s whole body went taut. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Peter growled at him and suddenly everything seemed to whirl around them; when it stopped, Chris found himself braced above Peter on the bed, Peter’s legs wrapped around his waist. “I’m sure,” Peter said firmly, reaching down to line up Chris’s cock. “Fuck me, Chris.”

That first long, slow thrust inside was so good Chris was pretty sure his eyes rolled back in his head. He couldn’t even remember for sure the last time he fucked someone bare, nothing but skin between them. Except for how that was a lie. He’d spent endless hours reliving his last time with Peter, engraving every detail into his memory

“Fuck,” he groaned, bracing his hands on the mattress and waiting, trying not to move. “Peter—”

“Yeah,” Peter’s voice rasped in his throat, his hands coming up to wrap around Chris’s arms as he swallowed. “I—I might need a minute. If you want me to last at all.”

Chris nodded, taking long, deep breaths. They stayed like that for several frozen moments, and Chris did his best to fix this moment in his memory as well. He knew he’d never really capture it—the sight of Peter laid out under him, the unmistakable smells of sex filling the air, the mind-blowingly intimate sensation of being inside him, slick and hot and tight.

Finally, though, Peter’s eyes fluttered open again, pale and piercing under the darkness of his lashes. “Fuck me,” he said softly, no longer a demand, but a plea.

Chris moved before his brain caught up to what was happening, drawing out and thrusting back in. Slow, achingly slow, when the drumbeat of his pulse was demanding harder, faster. But he wanted to make it last as much as he could, to wring everything out of this unexpected gift.

“More,” Peter gasped, blunt fingernails digging into Chris’s biceps. “Faster, please.”

He never could resist Peter, not that he’d ever tried very hard. Chris picked up the pace, snapping his hips with each thrust. Sweat beaded on his skin, pooling at the small of his back, but that didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered right now was Peter, arching up into each stroke of Chris’s cock inside him.

“Touch me,” he choked out, his eyes sliding closed again. “Chris—touch me.”

Gathering enough concentration to get a hand down between them took a moment, but it was worth it when Peter keened at the touch, teeth digging into his lower lip.

“I’m so close,” he panted. “Fuck, Chris, please—”

It only took a couple of strokes of Chris’s hand, twisting around the head of Peter’s cock on half-forgotten instinct, a couple of thrusts inside him, before Peter came with a cry, coating his own abs and Chris’s hand. The feeling of Peter’s ass clamping down around his cock was enough to drag Chris over the edge, too, leaving him shaking and gasping for air as he braced himself above Peter.

Peter’s hands slid up his back, pulled him down. Chris only resisted for a moment before his arms gave out and he collapsed on top of Peter.

“Gonna crush you,” he muttered.

“I don’t care,” Peter replied, his hands stroking up and down Chris’s back. “Stay.”

“Mmmm,” Chris managed into his neck. He vaguely remembered groping for some tissues to half-heartedly clean them up, but then he drifted off despite his firm intention to stay awake and remember every moment.

***

When he blinked back awake, Peter was looking at him intently from the other pillow.

“What?” Chris said, still trying to get his brain completely back online.

“I like it.” Peter gestured toward Chris’s face with a twitch of his fingers. “All the gray.”

Chris huffed a laugh. “Oh, fuck off. I know I got old.”

Peter pushed himself up on one elbow and reached out to run his fingers through Chris’s hair. “No,” he said, looking down at Chris seriously and letting his hand trail down to cup Chris’s face. “I really like it.”

Chris swallowed and nuzzled into Peter’s hand a bit. He couldn’t help it.

Peter relaxed back down onto his pillow again, but kept his hand on Chris. He traced a path down to his left pec and tapped the tattoo there. “A bit literal, don’t you think?”

Chris could feel his face heat slightly, but he wasn’t truly embarrassed, had never been embarrassed by any of his music; he’d just never expected to have Peter confront him about it. “Well, I’ve always found you very inspiring. And ‘Bullet to the Heart’ did very well for us. As far as the world knows, the tattoo is just about the song.”

Peter gave a vague hum of acknowledgement to that and ran a fingertip lightly over the top date on the list on Chris’s ribs again. “How many of these tattoos are about me?”

Chris settled comfortably on his back and spread his arms in invitation. “You tell me.”

He grinned in satisfaction as Peter moved to straddle his hips, never one to refuse a challenge. He brought the comforter with him, letting it pool around their waists rather than push it off, and it struck Chris as oddly domestic.

The early afternoon sun had shifted just enough to be coming through the bedroom window now, lighting Peter to great advantage (not that he needed the help) as he sat, unselfconsciously naked, on Chris’s thighs and studied him seriously, head tilting occasionally. Despite their earlier desperation, it wasn’t sexual now, just… comfortable. Chris let his fingers rest lightly on Peter’s knees, enjoying the chance to actually touch him again.

“None of the other dates are me,” Peter said, not really a question.

Chris shook his head, not needing to look. He knew them all by heart, and listed them as Peter traced them one by one. “Release of our first real studio album. My wedding day. Allison’s birthday. The end of our first world tour. My divorce. The Grammy.”

“You haven’t added to the list in a while.”

Chris shrugged against the pillow. “I only do it for things that feel like they changed my life. My life hasn’t changed in a long time now.”

Peter flattened his palm over the list and left it there, a warm brand against Chris’s side. “No?”

“Well, not until quite recently. We’ll have to see where it goes. It takes a lot to make my list.”

Peter tapped a finger against Chris’s ribs thoughtfully. “And if things go well? Will you add today?”

Chris shook his head again. “No. New Year’s.”

Peter stilled. “New Year’s?”

“I saw you. At Deaton’s party, when you were leaving. It was maybe thirty seconds, but it felt like the whole world stopped.”

Peter scowled. “I refuse to be grateful to that little shit of an intern that screwed up the contract for Deaton’s deal so badly I had to be called in on New Year’s Eve. I refuse.”

Chris tried to repress his smile. “But didn’t you say you only had today off because of that? If it hadn’t been for him, you never would have been in that doughnut shop either. Maybe you have to be doubly grateful now.”

“Absolutely not!” Peter dug his fingers into Chris’s sides, and he squirmed, laughing when he couldn’t so much as budge Peter in his efforts to get away.

“Stop, stop,” Chris gasped. “It was too much to hope for that you’d forget I was ticklish, huh?”

Peter smoothed his hands down Chris’s ribs in what might or might not have been apology. “I never forgot anything about you,” he said seriously. And then he quickly switched his focus to Chris’s arm, running a finger along the arrow down the inside of his forearm. “That’s not for me.”

“Allison. She’s a champion archer. I’ll have to get another one for her if she makes the Olympic team.”

“You’re very proud of her.”

“I am. She’s a great kid. It’s a miracle she’s turned out so normal, given her parents.”

Peter shot him a sharp glance. “There is nothing wrong with you.”

Chris snorted. “Victoria would beg to differ. As would my father.”

“Yes, well, Allison chose to come to UCLA and live with you once she had a choice, now didn’t she?”

“Her life is not a competition.”

“Maybe not,” Peter said with a baring of teeth that only barely qualified as a smile, “but Victoria is still losing.”

“Oh my god,” Chris said with a roll of his eyes, “it’s no wonder you became a lawyer.”

Peter looked nothing so much as satisfied. “You like it.”

“I do.” Chris reached up and drew him down into a kiss. “I always did.”

Peter deepened the kiss at that, turning it into something possessive, claiming.

When they came up for air again, Peter settled with his head on Chris’s shoulder, and Chris couldn’t help running a hand through his thick hair, enjoying the messy contrast he was creating with the coiffed and put-together Peter who’d first walked through his door. “You’re not going to get overly noble and break up with me for my own good again, are you?”

Peter glanced up at him and then went back to idly stroking his chest. “That wasn’t all for your benefit, you know. It was for me, too. I don’t… share well.”

“I didn’t want you to share.”

“I wasn’t ready to share you with the world like that.”

“And now? It’s not like I’m exactly retired.”

“Now I know you’re not sharing the parts that matter.”

“And which parts are those?”

“The parts that are mine.”

“You gonna keep them this time?”

“Yes,” Peter said decisively, and Chris believed him.

***

**Excerpts from “A Day with Silver Bullets’ Chris Argent”:**

We recently spent the day with Silver Bullets’ lead singer and writer of their new hit “My Road Leads Back to You,” Chris Argent. He spoke to us about feeling like he’s finally slowed down enough to enjoy life again in recent years, how he feels the band has grown since their initial rise to fame in the early 2000s, and, most importantly, allowed us a glimpse of his life with his new partner and the inspiration for this summer’s consistent top song.

***

When I first arrive at Argent’s house, I’m struck by how almost modest it seems. Fans everywhere have long swooned over Argent’s rock-star looks, his tattoos, his motorcycles, his bad-boy vibe, and while all of that is true, it appears he also has a more practical side when it comes to how he lives his day-to-day life.

He greets me at the door himself, barefoot and relaxed. I do not whimper.

[...]

Argent’s daughter, Allison, is also home from college for the weekend and graciously agrees to take part in the interview.

“So what do you think of the new song?”

She smiles. “I know it’s probably not cool to say it, but I like all my dad’s music. I have to admit, though, this one has caused me some problems.”

Argent frowns at her in concern. “You didn’t tell me that.”

“One of my suitemates’ boyfriends showed up at our door after they had a fight and stood in the hallway playing ‘My Road Leads Back to You’ on his phone like it was a boombox until she’d come talk to him. That was kind of awkward.”

Hale leans forward, intrigued. “Did it work?”

“Why do you think I came home for the weekend?”

Hale settles back into the couch at Argent’s side. I can only describe his expression as smugly satisfied. Argent looks pained, and Allison laughs.

A few minutes later, she invites me into the kitchen to help make coffee. Once the machine is set, she turns and leans back on the counter, looking out toward the living room again.

“I know everyone knows I moved with my mom to Nevada after the divorce [when Victoria famously went to work at the Argent Arms US headquarters]. Dad was fine with it; his schedule was too irregular, lots of travel, all that stuff. It just made sense. But he was still there for as many of the important things in my life as he could be. There was this time when I was in middle school where he made them arrange a break in their tour so he could fly in and take me to this father-daughter dance. It was so dumb, but I remember being thrilled that he was there.”

She smiles at the memory for a second and then looks at me. “My point is, I saw him enough growing up to feel like I knew him pretty well, no matter what people think. And he was usually pretty happy. He hasn’t had a bad life, and I don’t think he’d ever claim otherwise. But I have _never_ seen him as happy as he is now.”

When I look back into the living room as she turns to get the cups, I see Argent laugh at something Hale just said, and I don’t have any problem believing the truth of her words.

[Photo: Chris Argent sitting sideways on a couch, acoustic guitar held loosely across his chest, next to Peter Hale, who is smiling slyly down at the papers in his lap; Argent has his head thrown back in laughter, his feet shoved under Hale’s thigh.]

***

“Have you been surprised by the success of this song in particular?”

Argent smiles and looks over at Hale. “Not really. I know it’s been a while since we did a ballad, and I think that’s mostly why people have been surprised, but all the songs I’ve written that were actually about Peter have done well.” He reaches up, apparently without conscious thought, to touch the left side of his chest, just over his famous “Bullet to the Heart” tattoo.

Hale snorts, but flushes high along his cheekbones nonetheless. “Always so dramatic,” he mutters.

Argent settles his arms across the back of the couch. “You knew what you were getting into.”

Hale smiles despite himself. “I did.”

“Anyway,” Argent says, “I’m not surprised. I think people like to believe that things can work out.” He laces his fingers with Hale’s. “They did for me.”


End file.
